The gallery opening in SoHo was crowded, loud, and pretentious—exactly the kind of place I, Maya, usually avoided. I was a struggling artist, specializing in abstract oil paintings that critics called “promising” but buyers called “confusing.” I stood in the corner, nursing a glass of cheap white wine, watching people ignore my work.
Then, David walked in.
It wasn’t just that he was handsome, though he possessed the kind of symmetrical, chiseled features usually reserved for magazine covers. It was the way he moved—with an effortless, commanding grace that parted the crowd. He walked straight to my most obscure painting, The Blue Void, a piece I had priced exorbitantly high just to keep it.
“It’s magnificent,” he said, turning to me. His eyes were a startling, icy blue. “It captures the feeling of drowning in open air. I must have it.”
“It’s not really for sale,” I stammered.
“Double the price,” he countered, smiling. “Consider it a down payment on getting to know the artist with the saddest eyes in the room.”
That was the beginning. The next six months were a blur of what I now know as “love bombing,” but back then, it felt like destiny. David was perfect. He was a venture capitalist with endless resources and even more endless charm. He filled my studio with imported peonies. He flew us to Paris for dinner because I mentioned craving a specific croissant. He listened to my dreams and validated my insecurities. He made me feel like the center of the universe.
